“Helen,” he groaned, without looking up again, “do you not know that you are beautiful? Have you no heart? You fling your soul bare before me, and you fill me with this fearful passion; you will drive me mad!” “But, Arthur,” she protested, “I could not think of you so; I thought of you as my brother, and I meant to make you happy.” “Tell me, then,” he gasped, staring at her, “tell me once for all. You do _not_ love me, Helen?” The girl answered with a frank gaze that was cruel, “No, Arthur.” “And you can never love me? You take back the promise that you made me?” “I told you that I was only a child, Arthur; it has been a long time since I have thought of it.” The young man choked back a sob. “Oh, Helen, if you only knew what cruel words those are,” he groaned. “I cannot bear them.” He gazed at her with his burning eyes, so that the girl lowered hers again. “Tell me!” he exclaimed. “What am I to do?” “Can we not remain friends, just as we used to be?” she asked pleadingly. “Can we not talk together and help each other as before? Oh, Arthur, I thought you would come here to live all summer, and how I should like it! Why can you not? Can you not let me play for you without--without--” and Helen stopped, and flushed a trifle; “I do not know quite what to make of you to-day,” she added. She was speaking kindly, but to the man beside her with his burning heart, her words were hard to hear; he stared at her, shuddering, and then suddenly he clenched his hands and started to his feet. “Helen,” he cried, “there is but one thing. I must go!” “Go?” echoed Helen. “If I stay here and gaze at you I shall go mad with despair,” he exclaimed incoherently. “Oh, I shall go mad! For I do love you, and you talk to me as if I were a child! Helen, I must get this out of my heart in some way, I cannot stay here.” “But, Arthur,” the girl protested, “I told father you would stay, and you will make yourself ill, for you have walked all day.” Every word she uttered was more torment to the other, for it showed him how much his hopes were gone to wreck. He rushed across the room and opened the door; then, however, he paused, as if that had cost him all his resolution. He gazed at the girl with a look of unspeakable yearning, his face white, and his limbs trembling beneath him. “You wish me to go, Helen?” he exclaimed. “Wish you!” exclaimed Helen, who was watching him in alarm. “Of course not; I want you to stay and see father, and--” “And hear you tell me that you do not love me! Oh, Helen, how can you say it again? Can you not see what you have done to me?” “Arthur!” cried the girl. “Yes, what you have done to me! You have made me so that I dare not stay near you. You _must_ love me, Helen, oh, some time you must!” And he came toward her again, stretching out his arms to her. As she sprang back, frowning, he stopped and stood for an instant, half sinking; then he whirled about and darted out of the door.